And Nothing Stops it Happening
by Alexandra Spar
Summary: A battered Mustang finds himself in Radiator Springs. Lost and alone, can he find the absolution he is so desperately longing for? Postmovie, no romance, slash or otherwise
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I own not a goddamn thing in this but Henry the Mach 1. All else belongs to Disney and Pixar, and may it long become them.

Henry you may recognize from certain other fics. In this iteration he has nothing to do with Christine Redhart.

* * *

Oh but time is a river. 

Dip a wheel into it once and you can never, ever get back there. Time is a river and Time is hungry and she never, ever, not once, lets up.

Henry was running on fumes and he knew it. The sick queasy ache in his tank had been worse and worse since he'd passed the lights of the old Wheel Well hotel, and paused there to look over the valley. He had kept going, because there was really nothing else to do, and because the sick swimming in his mind had been bad enough these last few days to make thought hurt too badly for prolonged attempts.

He'd passed some kind of neon sign a little while back, and as the fumes gave out to nothing he let himself coast to the edge of the old hotpatch, coughing heavily, dry-retching. Everything hurt. Shocks, struts, valve seats, fuel system, tank. It was a feeling he knew very well.

He'd been running sick and hot for the past hundred or so miles, and he could feel it in the ache of cooling metal. The fuel he'd had at that greasy-wrench place back on the highway hadn't sat well, and he'd had to stop and get rid of quite a bit of it on the side of the road, leaving him with only a few queasily sloshing gallons. _Stupid_, he thought. _Trying to drink anything. You know how touchy it's been_. Everything hurt.

He let his eyes close, shivering violently in the mild dawn air, and drifted. He supposed at some point—maybe years from now—someone might come by, and laugh at him, and maybe drive on and tell a wrecker to come fetch the old muscle-car from his grave.

* * *

Oddly enough, when Henry woke, he didn't wake to the endless desert wind and the spick-spack of sand against his rocker panels. He was in a white place, with clean walls, and the curve and glint of medical equipment all around him. 

"Awake at last?" someone said, and Henry blinked. The voice didn't sound like an angel's; it was an amused, rough, no longer young sort of voice. He blinked again, and tried to focus, and made out an old dark-blue Hudson Hornet watching him with amused concern.

"….where am I?" Henry asked, and even as he shaped the words he knew how cliched they were. The Hornet merely chuckled.

"Radiator Springs, son. Welcome. You've been through hell, but I've got your systems more or less running again. How's the tank?"

Henry had to force his consciousness back into his body. It didn't want to go. "….a bit queasy, but not bad…look, what is this? Radiator Springs? What happened? Who are you?"

"All in good time, son," said the Hornet, and nudged a control releasing Henry's wheels. "You strike me as a car who's lost his hope. We specialize in that, round these parts. Now, do you feel up to going out and meeting the locals, or should I go down to Flo's and fetch you some hi-test?"

Henry gulped. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had proper hi-test. "I….I don't know. It's been a while since I refueled, I, I…." _And I'm sick every time I try._

"That's all right, son. I'll bring you some, and there's no shame if you can't hold on to it. Cars out in the desert find themselves terrible thirsty, and that never ends well." He smiled, a comforting curve of old chrome, and reversed out of the shop.

Henry found himself desperately, wordlessly grateful to the Hornet, whoever he was—there was something terribly comforting about the older car's low gravelly tones and his understanding, and he really, really didn't want to try to refuel and find himself miserably sick in front of this—this Radiator Springs, whoever lived here.

He closed his eyes and huddled in on himself, his ancient Wide Oval tires squeaking a little on the sterile floor, and hoped that wherever he had found himself it was as kind as the dark-blue Hornet had been.

* * *

"Hey, Doc! What's the story on that hotrod Mater brought in this morning?" 

Flo's was busy—as it always was these days. Radiator Springs had become something of a hotspot for travelers on the newly re-popularized 66; seemed like everyone wanted to see the place where the Fabulous Hudson Hornet had been hiding out all these years, and where McQueen's headquarters had been built. Every conceivable kind of vehicle had been coming through the town in the past few months, from sporty little T-birds and ricer imports to huge sleek Mercedes twelve-cylinders and Lexus luxury sedans. Once—and this had been something of a coup for Flo's—they'd even catered to a Roller.

But the locals still owned the town. McQueen made a point of being involved; this afternoon he was showing off his newly retouched paint job, courtesy of Ramone, and chatting with Fillmore and the Sarge. Doc pulled up beside them.

"He'll be okay, I think. That kid's got a story to tell, though. He's been running himself to pieces, and I want to know why."

"Dude," said Fillmore, thoughtfully, "maybe he's runnin' from something. The Man."

"You're paranoid," snapped the Sarge. "That organic fuel of yours is rottin' your mind."

"Hey, lay off my fuel, man. It's all-natural."

Doc said nothing, merely filling a can with Flo's best high-octane juice. What he'd noticed, as he was going over the Mustang's hard-worn engine, was a lot more interesting than the fact he'd apparently decided to drive until he dropped; there had been traces of what appeared to be water damage inside some of the components, as well as some kind of black glaze. At one time or another, the kid had been dunked in a river. No salt-corrosion, though, other than the ordinary undercarriage stuff he expected from a car who'd come from the East, where winter meant salted roads and rusted floorpans. He'd gone swimming in fresh water, which meant a lake or a river.

Definitely a story to be told, there.

"But he's gonna be okay?" McQueen persisted.

"Physically, yes." He thought, at least. The kid's temperature wasn't where he'd like it to be, and he didn't much fancy that black crinkled glaze inside the dual Quadrajets, but he figured that could wait until he got the kid's story straight. Doc wasn't necessarily sure about his mind—but he had hopes. He turned off the pump as the can filled, and was about to pull back onto the street, when a tiresomely familiar sound system made itself known.

"Goddamn kids," the Sarge muttered. The Delinquent Road Hazards had been something of a fixture around the Springs recently, and while the Sheriff was happy to pull their overlit rear ends over every time they came through (thump-thump-bang-thump, went DJ's subwoofers), the town was running out of roads to be re-paved. Bessie had never had so much work to do.

Doc rolled his eyes. "There's a foursome who don't seem to get the concept of law and order. –Well, I'd better be getting back, if I'm gonna have to hold traffic court for the fifth time this month."

"You oughta ban them from the town, Doc," said the Sarge. "Disrespectful hooligans, that's all they are. And some of the younger cars are startin' to act like them. I don't like it."

Doc sighed. "I'll take that under advisement, Sarge."

In fact he didn't make it back to the clinic before the four of them hove into view, riding single-file for once down the two-lane. Boost was in the lead, and he was in one hell of a hurry; Doc had to haul off the road to avoid being broadsided, and the import's bumper flirted by with bare inches to spare. He refrained from yelling what was on his mind, though, and waited for the Sheriff to do the necessary.

* * *

The Mach 1 was drowsing, shivering, half-asleep, wheels pulled in like a tired child's. Doc found himself wondering again just what had _happened_ to him to make this kind of desperate run worth it—and what the story was with that water damage. He didn't like the shaking. 

"Son?" he said, quietly, rolling forward, "you awake? I brought you some fuel."

The Mustang's eyes opened, slowly. They were a shade somewhere between blue and grey, and almost utterly desolate. There was a glassy shine to them Doc didn't like. "T-thank you, sir. I don't know if I can—"

"I know. Just take it slow, okay? After starving like that you're apt to make yourself sick if you drink too quick." Outside he could hear Sheriff's wheezy siren, and ticked off another worry in his mind. "What's your name, anyway?"

"H-Henry. I'm Henry. And you're…very familiar, somehow." The blue-grey eyes closed again, reopened. "Are you famous?"

Doc chuckled. "Once, a long time ago, I guess I was. I'm Doc Hudson." He set down the can of fuel and moved it forward for Henry to drink. "I run the town here, as well as being the doctor. Think they call it multitaskin' now."

"Hudson….Hudson Hornet. You're _that_ Hornet? Number Fifty-One?" Henry sipped at the fuel cautiously: it tasted like heaven, rich and heady and golden—and felt his tank lurch. He gulped, and tried to distract himself from the nausea—he was used to it, by now, and he found sometimes it helped to think of something else. "Uh….not to sound stupid, but am I actually awake, or is this still the crazy dream part?"

The Hornet—Doc Hudson—nudged over an oil drip pan, and Henry closed his eyes for a moment: it was…well, rather depressing to be so easy to read, but at the same time the older car's unassuming kindness felt like a soft blanket against a cold wind. He shivered, helplessly, rocking on his springs.

"You're awake, son. Just take it slow, and don't worry if you can't keep it down just yet. You've been through one hell of an experience."

Henry felt something odd, like a smile, tug at the corners of his mouth. He tried another sip, and another, ignoring the grumbling of his tank--and when after a brief, inevitable and unsuccessful battle he deposited it in the oil pan, groaning, he felt the smooth cool metal of the Hornet pressed gently against his baking side, steadying him, and heard him saying quiet comforting things. He shook and shuddered, his body refusing what it had been offered, and ached as the doctor's clinic receded into darkness.

_Nobody has ever done that. Ever seemed to care._

* * *

Time is a river. 

…_and again we are here where we have been so very many times before: a hot dog-killing August with the cicadas singing their mindless endless song in poison-green treetops, a white haze over the distance, the asphalt softening and bubbling under a blowlamp of a sun; green hills and mountains, and well-worn roads, and a red car, driving. _

_A red car—and this is the same red car that always drives this road in this dream, every time, exactly the same, down to the little tiny dent just at the base of his right front wheel arch, and the small hairline crack in his left taillight; this is the same red car that downshifts to third for the bend, heavy V-8 engine bellowing, RPMs dancing at redline, and snaps up again as the straight comes into view and the bridge and its battered concrete parapet approaches—the same red car, dark gleaming red, hugging the road on his fat Goodyear Wide Ovals, that we have seen every time this dream begins, and every time it ends. It is close to ending now. _

…_and time is ticking away and the red car seems to gather himself to spring ahead, into fifth and past the time record, and we can see—before he can—the way the road surface is not perfectly flat any more, the way a shadow that should not be there has appeared on the beige concrete of Margate Bridge; and a moment later, one less moment to go, that shadow has lengthened and become appallingly black in the bright day, and the red car falters as his offside driving wheel is caught in what is now a widening crack, and we can watch as the crumbled parapet of the bridge splits in two like a dry bone, and as the red car—helpless to slow himself, or to escape the end to which we now understand he is consigned—tumbles sideways, and down, and turns end over end with his wheels still spinning and his engine roaring in sudden horror; and we can see as the water seems to rise to receive him, and close over him in a froth of churned white._

_There is a moment where—now righted, if leaning in the fast-flowing green water—his roof surfaces, and half his right side; but he has his windows open for the sake of the broiling sun, and it is not long at all, at all, before there is nothing left of the red car but a swirling oilslick on the water, being borne downstream, and then nothing more of that. _

_Chunks of concrete and rebar swing from the crippled bridge. Perhaps ten minutes later another car comes into view round the curve, but this car is not trying to beat his own time, and he is able to stop in time—and to pull a screaming U-turn and beat hell back to the nearest town, and the nearest police station. _

_And now we are under the green water, and silvery pockets of air remain here and there in the red car's body. He has already given up consciousness, and been glad for it: the dreadful choking as every part of him was invaded by the cold fingers of the water had been more painful than anything he has ever known. He is unconscious when the river-currents fetch him up against a shelf of rock; he is unconscious when the setting sun glints scarlet from the water just by that shelf, and catches the eye of one of the searchers along the road, and he is almost completely gone when the hooks catch under his bumper and the chains snap tight, throwing off gilded droplets of water, and carefully, inch by inch, pull him up and into the air once more. _

_He would have been better off had they not found him, we think, watching as he goes through agonies, resuscitated viciously on the side of the road. We watch him being forced and pummelled back into life, and breath, and when at last they ease him into the back of the emergency trailer and set off with sirens blazing we look back at the quiet and unassuming river and think: better they had not. _

But it is always the same, this dream, and time is like that river, and oh but we would give anything if we could step back into the river again and come to a halt, and think no more.

* * *

Doc had been forced to revise his diagnosis, after watching his patient be repeatedly sick, and registering the upswing on the temp gauges. The Mach 1 was very far from well; he'd taken siphon samples from his tank after heavy solvent lavage, and what he saw on the readout was not reassuring. 

"Sugar?" Sally asked, unbelieving. "You're telling me this poor kid got sugared?"

"That's what I said." The doctor's gravelly voice had no expression at all. "Happened a while back, by the look of things. He's been runnin' so hard all the damn caramel got burned off from the workin' surfaces, but the damage was done. And his temp's almost offscale. I'm doing what I can to clean him out, but the prelim says he's probably gonna need a whole shiny new fuel system, and the cylinders need regrinding, and the heads are a mess. I'm only telling you about this, Sally, because you're our town attorney—and this, what I'm seein' here, this is actionable. If we can find out who did it to him, he's due one heck of a settlement. Maybe even enough to cover that new system."

Sally's eyes were wide. The Mustang drooped listlessly on the lift, eyes shut, breathing shallowly. "Chrysler. Poor kid—I shouldn't even say kid, he's at least—what, gotta be thirty years older than me—"

"He's a muscle-car, Sally. They're famous for slow maturation. 69 was a good year for the 'Stang, especially the Mach 1. He's well-built and he's strong. But he's been maltreated for a long time, and he's had a swim. There's water damage in the engine, as well as the sugar. When Mater brought him in he'd run out of gas—and run himself ragged in the process. Kid's trying to escape something. I want to find out what."

"What's…what's doing this to him? The fever?"

"Got me. I'm thinking probably just exhaustion, it can be like this; and the damage he's taken is enough to set up infection, despite what I've done. He can't keep anything down, and Chrysler knows he's tried. I've got him on a slow drip feed, and I'm changin' out what I can from his fuel system—the pump had burnt sugar inside it, Sally, it was one hell of a mess. But until he gets enough strength back to get his mind out of its own knot, I won't know what his story is."

Sally stared up at the red car, lying on the lift. Every now and then he twitched restlessly, and moaned; it was a little quiet sound of desolation.

"This isn't right, Doc."

"I know."

She sighed. "Hate to have to heap more bad news on top of this, but you got two of the Road Hazards in the impound for reckless endangerment. The other two lost Sarge and Sheriff somewhere outside of town. You want I should keep them there for another night while you work on this guy?"

Doc had to sigh, too. "No. He's stable, at least, even if he's sick as hell. I'll deal with them. Which two?"

"DJ and Wingo. The other two booked."

"All right." Doc put down his sensor array and slumped for a moment, looking tired. "Go on, Sally. Go tell Sheriff to pull 'em from impound and get them to the courthouse. I'll be along shortly."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer, as before: Cars, the characters, and related indicia thereof, belong to Disney and Pixar: Henry belongs to me.

* * *

Boost was not a happy tuner.

Cruising—even during the day—without DJ's tunes was kind of lame, and he had nobody with him but Snot Rod to set up any kind of fun. He'd halfheartedly run a Camry into a ditch thirty miles back, and felt vaguely weird about it.

Snot Rod wasn't helping either. The 'Cuda had been falling behind—on the highway Boost normally rolled at eighty at least, and Snot Rod kept driftin' back into his rearviews before another calamitous sneeze rocked his blower wide open and shot him back up into position with the Viper. Boost was no doctor—hell, never paid attention to them in the first place—but even he could tell the Rodster was not in good shape. His breathing had a snory, thick quality Boost didn't like, and the sneezes sounded like they really hurt. Snot Rod hadn't even offered any commentary on the Camry's ditching, and that was out of character for him too.

He spoke up now, though, in a thick congested voice, pulling up beside Boost. His engine was knocking. "Boost, man?"

"Yo, what up." Boost narrowed his eyes.

"DJ an' Wingo got nabbed by that Sheriff dude. We going back to bust 'em out?"

Boost's lip curled. "Slow-bumper twinkies deserved what they got, yo. I ain't puttin my aft to the grinder for 'em."

Snot Rod rolled in silence for a couple of miles. Then, "Boost, man?"

"What."

"That guy we rolled. The 'Stang. You think he's dead?"

"Chrysler, whaddaya think I am, some kind of psychic? I got no clue! Now shut up and cruise!"

Miles passed, punctuated with Snot Rod's increasingly heavy sneezing. He was coughing, too, his engine chopping and missing.

"….Boost, man?"

"_What_."

"…I don't feel so good. Can we, can we stop for a sec? I can't breathe."

Boost cut his eyes sideways to the orange 'Cuda and nearly swerved out of his lane. He shut off his own CD changer. Snot Rod's eyes were barely open, brilliant and glazed; his mouth was open, his blower butterflies wide as they could go.

"Yo SR, man. You okay?"

"I…I dunno," Snot Rod coughed. "Feels like, like I got stuff in my carbs. Hurts, Boost…"

"Pull over, man. Now." Boost didn't know where the words came from, but they came. "You're sick. I'ma get someone." Who? he wondered. He hadn't meant to tell the Plymouth to stop, and definitely hadn't meant to tell him he would get help: they were miles from anywhere, in the middle of the Chryslerin' desert, and Boost didn't know how far the next rest station might be.

Snot Rod obeyed him without complaint, though, almost instantly slowing and lurching onto the hard shoulder. He came to a stop in a heavy fit of coughing that sounded to Boost like it hurt.

He pulled over a little in front of the 'Cuda and backed up to sit side by side with him, reaching out a tire to test the Plymouth's temperature and snatching it back with a stream of invective.

"…._Chrysler_, man, yo burnin' up. Why dincha say somethin' before? How long you been feelin' bad?"

Snot Rod sniffled miserably. "Since…uh…since before we rolled that dude. The Mustang. Outside of Flagstaff."

"Whynahell dincha say somethin'?" Boost demanded. Snot Rod coughed and shivered, pulling back from him.

"You guys were all….on a roll. And I'm always sneezing. I din't want to, uh, bug you."

Boost let out another rocking and rolling string of expletives, and lit his engine again with a roar. "Man, you even dumber'n you look. Aight, we're goin' back."

"….back?"

"Yes back! Man, you _sick_, Snot Rod. I ain't ridin witcha in that condition. We're goin' back and your ass is gonna get fixed, you hear me? And we can bust out DJ an' Wingo while we at it."

Snot Rod was silent for a little while, and then gave vent to an almighty sneeze, flames roaring from his exhausts. "…uh…Boost…I'unno if I can make it."

"Sure y'can. Come on, boogersnot. I ain't leavin' ya on the side of the road for no cops to pick up."

Slowly, painfully, the 'Cuda and the Viper slid back on the highway, and pulled a thoroughly illegal U at the next sliproad.

* * *

"Radiator Springs Traffic Court will now come to session! All rise for the honorable Doc Hudson!"

There was a chorus of tire-squeakings and shock-groanings as the various residents rose to salute Doc on his way to the judge's bench. DJ and Wingo stood behind the defendant's line, as they—and their friends—had stood so many times before.

Doc rolled to the lift and leaned over his podium. "Order," he said. "Now, this would be the…sixth time, Sheriff? that you and your hooligan friends have been called up before me for disturbin' the peace and disregarding traffic laws. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?"

There was a steely glint in the Hudson's eyes that neither of the tuners liked one little bit. "Uh," said Wingo.

He was saved from further conversational attempts by Mater, who threw open the courtroom doors. "Hooo-EEEE," the tow truck offered. "Doc, I'm mighty sorry ta interrupt yer law-givin' and stuff, but y'alls might want to save this fer a mite later. You got yerself another patient."

Doc blew his horn to quiet the room. "Mater, what's the meaning of this?"

"The meanin' is, uh…" Mater had to think about that. "The meanin' is that that other shiny glowinnadark car's back an' his buddy, an' he ain't lookin' so hot. Y'all might want to head on down to the clinic, Doc."

Wingo rose on his tires. "Boost? He came back for us?"

"That's what I done did said," Mater told him, annoyed. "An' his friend."

Doc was already easing down the lift. "All right, all right. Court adjourned for one hour while I figure out what the hell is goin' on here."

Wingo and DJ looked at one another, both surprised, frightened—and pleased.

* * *

"He's got a nasty infection," said Doc, turning to the three tuners. "And Chrysler only knows why I let you three in here, after all you've done to this town. You got five minutes, then I'm havin' you all towed to the impound."

Boost looked thunderous, but said nothing. Behind him, Wingo and DJ chafed at their yellow parking boots.

Snot Rod lay on the lift with his wheels dangling, almost touching the floor. Doc had pulled the supercharger's cowling, and it looked more monstrous than ever, jutting out of the orange hood like some kind of bizarre alien. The butterfly valves were pegged wide open to help him breathe.

He blinked slowly. "….guys? Wha….what happened…?"

Wingo winced at his voice. Snot Rod sounded more congested and miserable than any of them had ever heard him. "Uh, dude, they caught me an' DJ and you guys got away. Only I guess you got sick and Boost pulled you in for the Doc to fix ya."

Snot Rod blinked again, and drew a breath—and started to cough, heavily, a deep wretched cough that sounded as if his whole manifold was shaking itself to pieces. When he could finally speak again, he mumbled something none of them could catch.

"Yo, SR, what was that?" DJ asked.

"I said….uh….thanks. Uh. For, bringing me here. Or something. I feel weird, guys. All…..swimmy. And it's so bright."

The tuners exchanged glances. "Naw, man," Wingo said. "'s all cool. You just, uh, feel better."

Boost hadn't spoken since they'd come in. He merely stared at the orange Barracuda on the lift, his eyes unreadable. Neither of the other Road Hazards wanted to ask him what was on his mind.

"That's enough," said a low voice from the doorway. "Out, all of you. He needs to rest."

It was something of a small miracle that none of the three tuners even put up a fight. They limped, boots clonking on the floor, one by one out of the clinic.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: as before, I own nothing but Henry and his Woeful Angst-Filled Backstory. This Henry is a slightly different iteration than the one who shows up in my KR fics, but is born of the same basic inspiration.

* * *

Henry woke in the night to unexpected and unidentifiable noises. For a moment he couldn't work out where he was, and panicked; then the faint familiar smell of sagebrush and motor oil, and the feeling of the lift holding him comfortably just enough off the ground to take the weight off his shocks, registered. _Radiator Springs. How long have I been here, and... what have I been saying, I wonder?_

Trying to remember the past few days was like looking into a broken mirror: nothing seemed contiguous, coherent, on the same plane. Images were recognizable, but they didn't fit together in any kind of a story.

There had been pain, yes, and sickness, and over and over again _the bridge_ and that flare and fade of agony as he had felt himself invaded by green river-water; and interspersed with the bridge had been someone talking to him in a low kind voice, and something wonderfully cold sheeting over his burning hood, and more voices—_that's good, Red, he'll probably need another dousing, don't go far_—and someone urging him to drink, and then more crazy dreams. At one point he had been entirely sure he was home again, back when home had meant something in particular, and Dayne had been there, with her chrome heliographing sunstars in his eyes and her paint brilliant and endless green, and he had wanted to go to her, to light his engine and pull out of wherever it was he had been, and touch that curved bumper with his own—and then that flood of coldness again, and people yelling. _Don't you give up on me, kid._

But I wasn't, he'd wanted to say. I just want to go home to her. Can't I go home?

Coldness, and then pressure all around him: people were there, someone was there, and Dayne seemed to shimmer like a mirage at noon, and then was gone entirely. After that, he couldn't remember a goddamn thing.

Except now there he was, awake in the darkness. He shifted a little, testing the pain in his chassis: he felt exhausted, weak as a kit-car, but the worst of the hurting was gone, and he no longer felt that sickening dizziness that had been with him ever since he'd left the East Coast. Moreover, he could think in a straight line. _Great. I so needed that. _

The noises from next door interrupted again. It sounded as if someone was having trouble breathing. Henry's curiosity, long-dormant with the exhaustion, flickered like a pilot light; he slid down off the lift, suppressing a little hiss as the coldness of the floor against his tires registered, and crept over to the connecting door.

It was only open a crack, but the lights were on, and Henry could make out a very familiar candy-orange paintjob. _That's the Barracuda with that ridiculous blower, the one who was with the imports that ran me off the road. Guess he had worse than a cold._

The Cuda looked considerably different than he had in Henry's rearviews: for one thing, his supercharger had been removed, and sat on a chrome trolley nearby, looking more monstrous than ever. His hood, too, what was left of it after the charger's cutout, was leaning against a toolchest, revealing the gleaming orange-and-chrome complexity of his mill. Henry recognized the dual Holley carbs as top-of-the-line, even as they shook as the car's whole body shivered. His breathing had a thick, rasping sound, even with the huge blower taken off and the throats of the carbs wide open.

_Must be serious._

Doc was working on something beyond the Cuda on his lift, and came around into Henry's field of view, talking softly. He couldn't make out words, but the tone was familiar: he'd heard that same tone of voice inside the broken-mirror of the past few days. Quietly, he retreated to his own lift; but the old Hudson was no fool, and he'd seen the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

"Man, this _sucks_."

It was a completely valid statement, but that didn't stop Lizzie from whanging Wingo's rear deck with one of her hard little tires. "Keep a civil tongue in yer face while yer in my store!" she crowed.

"Aaugh! You didn't stick no stickers on me, old lady! Please tell me you didn't stick no stickers on me!" Wingo wriggled, trying to see his butt in his rearview mirrors. "This paintjob cost more'n this whole stupid store!"

Lizzie cackled. "Then you best not tempt me!"

He had been sentenced (after some deliberation) to community service, as had the other tuners; in his case, since he was the smallest of them, cleaning out Lizzie's old back storeroom. They'd hooked him up to an industrial vacuum.

It sucked. Hard.

Wingo groaned, going back to cleaning out sixty years' worth of dust from forgotten corners. At least _Boost_ got to be out in the open air repainting road stripes—although he did have to do it under that freaky lowrider's supervision. Wingo had caught only a few of Ramone's comments re. sartorial elegance and Boost's lack thereof, but _damn_ could that Impala burn a guy. DJ was off with the Hummers and Escalades at Sarge's boot camp, and after some thought Wingo decided he didn't much envy the Scion either. His sound system was totally not meant to be jolted over hardpan at forty miles an hour, and—yeah, okay, Wingo had to admit it, these lo-profile tires were not so hot on a road that wasn't smooth as a new vinyl job. And what was _worst_, that stupid McQueen made a point of trundling by and examining their work, as if _he_, and not that old Hudson, ran this place.

_C'mon, Snot Rod,_ he thought, _get better so we can blow this excuse for a town and get back on the highway!_

* * *

"Feeling better?"

Henry blinked. It was full morning, the sun streaming through the windows of Doc's clinic, lighting dust motes into floating gold. He must've dreamed that weird thing last night. Must've.

"…yes, sir. A lot. Um. Thank you."

Doc rolled up to Henry, and examined him. "Good. Yes, I'd expected you to be awake around now. You gave us a scare, son. Want to tell me why you have both sugar _and_ water damage in your engine?"

Henry froze. Yeah, he'd expected to have to evade questions, but not such direct ones, and not so damn fast.

"And don't tell me you were trying to start a hummingbird colony." Doc's eyes were friendly, but they still had steel in their clear blue. Henry met that gaze for almost a minute, but inevitably had to look at the floor.

"Look, Doc, I'm grateful to you for what you've done. I really am. But I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"So what're you gonna do, son? Drive on out of here once you've paid my bill and find yourself the nearest reservoir to dive into? Drive until you lose the road entirely?"

"No! I—" all right, yeah. "It's none of your business." He knew he sounded like an idiot child, and couldn't help himself.

"Maybe not. But when I see a car like yourself with that kind of damage, I got to wonder what got him to that level. I got to wonder how many secrets it's healthy to keep."

The Hudson's voice had lowered, and Henry suddenly knew he wasn't just talking about him any more. He stayed silent, and after a moment Doc sighed, shrugged a little, and turned away. "Up to you, kid." At the door, though, he turned; at the very last moment, and said "Who's Dayne?"

Henry gasped. Doc's eyes narrowed. "Thought so. You talked about her while you were still raving. Green paint to lose yourself in and eyes like the bluest sky…"

"Stop!" Oh, God. He could feel it threatening to blow past his last reserves of self-protection. "Please."

"Who is she?"

The dam burst. Henry slumped on the lift, pushing away everything but that memory. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much once he had said the words, but he didn't really think so.

"She died. A long time ago, when I was young. She was a Jaguar XKE, on her way to see the races at Daytona; I was screwing around with dirt-track in Pennsylvania, and her trailer broke down, and, well, she never did make it to the races. We had four years together."

Doc was watching him; he could feel it, even though his own eyes were fixed on the concrete floor. "It was an accident, nobody could have saved her. An oil tanker jackknifed on State Route 50 and spilled crude all over the place: she was the fifth one round the corner and straight into hell. She had no chance at all."

"I'm sorry, kid," said Doc, quietly. For once the words didn't make Henry want to scream.

"Yeah. So was I. Went half-nuts after that. Trying to beat my own speed on little winding back roads. I wasn't paying attention to reports that the bridge was weakening, and I was busting rubber to get my seconds down when I crossed that bridge and it dropped straight into the river."

Doc said nothing, but Henry could sense his sympathy.

"They fished me out, which I really kind of wished they hadn't; and fixed me up, as much as they could, and as soon as I was fit I left town. Drove west. Here and there I got enough to keep going by competing in little races, and one of the little races was run by cars who didn't mind a little sabotage here and there to secure their wagers, and…well. You can figure the rest out." He stopped, still staring at the floor. It didn't exactly feel _better_ now that he'd got it out; it felt _different._

Doc continued to say nothing, for long enough that Henry cautiously looked up.

"Son," said the Hudson, at length, "you've been through hell. I know that look, I've been there myself. But you have your mind so far up your own tailpipe you can probably watch your own valves at work."

"What…?" That was not exactly the reaction Henry had been expecting—and had been receiving ever since he'd set off on his pointless journey.

"You had friends back East who fished your tail out of the river and got you runnin' again. You blew _them_ off cause you had some kind of selfish little theory that the world revolved round you and your own grief." The Hudson's voice was still low, and not unkind, but it was harder around the edges. "And you've been wastin' your own talents and your life all the way across this continent. You got a lot to give, son. You could be someone again. Do you think your Dayne would be proud to hear what you've been doing?"

Henry stared at him, a wide, wounded stare, his mouth open. "I…but…"

"You think about that, son. I'll go and fetch your breakfast."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer, as before: Cars, all characters thereof and related indicia, belong to Disney and Pixar. Henry is mine.

* * *

"'Ey, what's up, Doc?" Ramone asked, sipping oil. Beside him Fillmore and the Sarge sat side by side enjoying breakfast. 

"…heh…you said what's up, Doc," Fillmore remarked, a moment later. Sarge glared at him.

Doc Hudson merely pulled up to one of the pumps and tapped the go-pedal, sighing wearily as the best of Flo's hi-test gurgled into his tank. "Well, one of 'em is fine, the other one is still giving me some trouble. Think he might be in for something worse before he's done."

"Oooh, don't tell me, it's that Mustang from outta town," said Ramone. "I know dese things. He got secrets, am I right?"

"Dude, you think he's from the gov'mint?"

"Don't be stupider than you look, Fillmore," snapped the Sarge. "G-cars are black and lux. That stranger's a muscle-car from stem to stern."

"Actually," said the Hudson, stopping the pump long enough to reverse up to the nozzle with a gascan, "he's going to be just fine. It's that tuner I'm worried about."

"What, Snot Rod?" Ramone snorted. "Ain't nothin' wrong with him a rebuild and a decent paintjob won't fix. Vitamin E orange, pah."

"The Seventies weren't good to you, were they?"

Doc sighed. "He's pretty sick, boys. Lucky his hotshot NOS-head buddy pulled him in when he did."

That cut off the banter for a moment. Flo came by with a refill for her husband. "Doc, you sayin' that jacked Cuda is sick enough to worry you?"

Doc just cut off the pump when the can was full. "I'll let you know, Flo. Put this on my tab?"

They watched him roll away. "Damn," said Ramone, "I ain't never seen Doc worried about lawbreakers 'fore."

"Maybe that's cause he ain't had no lawbreakers in his clinic, just his courthouse, honey. When I think of that ol' red Mustang and how bad he was—"

She didn't have to finish. None of them particularly relished the memory of Doc rolling out and yelling for Red to get his big crimson hinder over to the clinic, stat. The 'Stang's temperature had redlined; it took three long dousings from Red's water cannon to bring him down to something approaching normal. Radiator Springs had held its collective breath.

"Man," said Fillmore. "It's, like, heavy round this place." 

* * *

After Doc had brought him some fuel, and checked to see he really was recovering, and that the new fuel system parts were settling okay, Henry had been left alone. He was grateful, he supposed. 

He hadn't expected that lecture from the old Hudson. Had, in fact, expected nothing more than the same vague sympathy he'd had from every other car he'd told his story. All three of them.

_You think your Dayne would be happy to see what you're doing?_

He scowled at the stained concrete floor of the bay. _What's it to you, oldtimer? You fixed me up. Waste of your time and mine._

But it couldn't just be that. He couldn't let that go, that nagging voice. _It's not my fault! She died, and without her there wasn't a reason to try living. That's all it was. Big old country-song of a life. Leave me the hell alone and go back to running your town._

…but the Hudson had listened. And the Hudson had actually listened enough to understand the words and more than the words, and had seen through Henry as if he were clear brittle glass. _You've gone through hell, son,_ he had said. _I know the look. I've been there myself._

He lit his engine, angrily, not knowing what he meant to do—smash through the door, run away, go out into the red desert again as far as he could drive—but a sound from the neighbouring bay registered in his mind, and he let himself idle, listening hard. The sound brought back immediate memories—not nice ones, either. Coughing, hard breathless coughing, just as he himself had done after the river incident; for months afterward even the slightest bit of grit or road-dust in his carbs had sent him into crippling fits of hacking. He wasn't aware of rolling off the lift or nosing aside the sliding door, but he found himself in front of the orange Barracuda nonetheless.

The Plymouth's eyes were squeezed shut, his wheels hunched in the struggle to breathe. Henry glanced around—where the hell was the doctor?—but again, without meaning to, heard his own voice speaking.

"Kid—hey, kid—"

Even without the giant blower jutting through his hood, the Barracuda looked like a dragster star. The effect was oddly jarring, given the fact that his expression was more like a demo-derby wreck. He gasped in enough breath for a few words. "Can't…breathe…hurts…"

Henry knew it did. He knew very well. "I know, okay, but you have to calm down, it's worse when you're freaking out, okay? Try to take deep breaths and wiggle your tires, think about something else."

He was somewhat, unexpectedly, touched at the immediate obedience. The Cuda's terrified gasping turned into attempts at slow inhales, and Henry could see the enormous rear cheater slicks turning as he tried to divert his concentration away from the struggle to breathe. It wasn't long before his coughing died away, and he hung on the lift, exhausted, eyes nothing more than pale green slits.

"I'm gonna get the Doc, okay? Hang tight, kid."

"N-no," the Cuda gasped. "Don't go. Who…are you?"

Henry had to chuckle softly. "Nobody worth mentioning. I guess I'm a friend, even if you and your neon buddies did roll me outside Flagstaff."

He immediately regretted the words when the Barracuda's eyes went wide and he started to choke again: but when he rolled forward the few feet to rest his pointed prow against his offside wheel, taking some of the shuddering into his own frame and grounding it, the fit subsided. The pale green gaze fixed on him.

"You…you're that Stang.Boost rolled….you. How…did youget…here?"

His words were coming in little breathless rushes. Henry didn't move away.

"I ran out of gas—well, okay, broke down—outside town, and they towed me here. Forget the roll, kid? I've had a lot worse."

The other car just stared at him. Henry looked back, calm, his own grey-blue eyes no longer feverish. "Name's Henry. What's yours?"

Now the green eyes dropped. "S-Snot Rod."

"Chrysler," said Henry. "That's even worse than that green bastard with the moustache, what's his name, Chick. What's your real name?"

The Barracuda didn't look up. He sniffled. "Colin."

"Okay, I can see the nickname, but hell, kid, you don't have to go around calling yourself Snot Rod, for Chrysler's sake. Be a Col, or something. Pick a name."

"Colin" sneezed mightily. Even with his engine off, the exhaust through his eight pipes blew paperwork off the desk in the corner. He snurfled again. "…sorry. 's…why I'm called that."

Henry sighed. "Yeah, okay. Your buddies name you that?"

The Barracuda nodded, looking down. Henry stopped himself mid-sigh. "I guess you've been told before you don't have to take that kind of stuff, right? And that you're Okay On Your Own, and that you should stand up for yourself, etcetera? Yeah, I heard it too. Listen, though, from my own experience, your name is what you make it. Pick something and make it stick. Hell, I dunno, someone had to call Speed Racer 'Speed Racer' for the first time. Anyway—I'm gonna go find Doc for you."

The pale-green eyes found him again, after exploring the floor for some time. He waited.

"H-Henry?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I don't feel good."

Something in his works turned over. He nodded, slowly.

"Believe me, I know. I've been pretty sick myself—no, not cause of that rollover—but I know how you feel. It's gonna be okay, kid. If Doc fixed me up, he can do the same for you."

Snot Rod—or whoever he wanted to be—held Henry's gaze a moment longer, and then nodded, slightly, and sank down again on the lift with his eyes closed.

He rolled out of the clinic, enjoying the clear response of his gears and the feeling of being pleasantly full of good-quality fuel, and looked around. Ah. Well.

There was a three-car fenderbender blocking the road just two shops away, and an elderly Mercury police car and the Doc were on the scene. He nosed up to them, noting that all three cars involved were barely dented, and that all three appeared to be high-end aftermarket-kitted SUVs.

Doc was talking to one of them. "I got sand in my rims! And my brakes are all messed up, man! It's that crazy Jeep's fault I hit this dude!"

"You drive on rims like that, you deserve what you get," Doc growled. "All right. Sarge, fetch Mater, let's get these three nimrods straightened out."

"Um," said Henry, from behind them. "Excuse me, Doctor?"

Doc did a fast one-eighty. "What're you doin' off the lift?"

"You…did say I was recovering fast. And the Plymouth—Snot Rod—" he couldn't help a wince at the nickname—"he's not feeling so good. I thought I should come get you."

The Hudson's eyes narrowed. "Did you. You had a chance to think over what I said to you?"

Henry blinked. He hadn't, really, no. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Sheriff, you handle this. I'll be waiting."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer, as before: I own Henry and nothing else. All "Cars" related characters and indicia belong to Disney and Pixar, and may they make a sequel.

* * *

Henry had followed Doc Hudson back to the clinic—mostly out of a lack of anything better to do—and was sitting in his bay glowering at the floor and tracing triangles on it with his right front tire when the doctor pushed open the connecting door. "Hey. Get out here, I need you."

"….me?"

"Yes, you, hotshot. What's your range?"

Henry blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Your range," Doc had repeated. "How far can you go on a tankful?"

He blinked again. "Uh…about three fifty?"

"Good enough. Saddle up, son. I need you to run out to Flagstaff for me."

Henry stopped himself from blinking a third time. Doc nodded. "Kid's in bad shape. He needs oxygen, which I got here, but the closest hospital that has the medicine he needs is Flagstaff. I called ahead. They'll be ready for you."

"…and you trust me to run there and back and not just head off into the desert?"

Doc laughed—a sound Henry wasn't used to. "If you were gonna run you'd have done it already. Head on up to Flo's and fill up, and get Luigi to check your tires." He turned away from the door, back to his patient, just assuming Henry would do as he'd asked—and, despite all his old tired mental tracks, Henry did. He caught a glimpse of the Barracuda as he headed out, and swallowed; Doc was doing something to his manifold, and the orange car was still choking.

He hurried up the main street. The pileup had been cleared away, bits of chromed plastic and flakes of metallic paint the only evidence of the crash. Flo's V8 Café was impossible to mistake, and he turned in to the forecourt and found himself being Looked At.

"Um, hi," he said. Four pairs of eyes followed him as he rolled up to a pump: a purple and flame-coloured Impala, a low-slung Motorama honey in a seafoam and cream tutone job, an old Willys Jeep, and a microbus with hippie flowers. "I know this is hard to believe, but Doc told me to come here and get filled up. He wants me to go to Flagstaff to get medicine for—" He couldn't say 'Snot Rod.' "—for his patient."

The Motorama came over to him. "Ho-nee, it sure is good to see you on your wheels again, stranger. You even gave Doc a scare!"

Henry swallowed. "Thank you, ma'am. Sorry if I've caused you trouble. My name's Henry, and I'm….grateful for all your town has done for me."

"None of that, soldier," said the Jeep. "Good to see you up and about. Doc wants you to go to Flagstaff, you go to Flagstaff."

He had to stop himself from saluting, half-amused, half-taken aback. "Yes, sir. I will."

Someone behind him pulled in with a screech of tires. "What's going on, guys?"

Henry slowly turned to see a gleaming scarlet racecar, flake-crimson metallic paint and a wide white side-oval like one of the first 'Vettes, regarding him with undisguised curiosity. He had a moment of helpless self-consciousness—what must he look like, dented and battered as he was, with his original dark-red paintjob dusted and marred with his journeys?—but pushed it away, clearing his throat. "….Lightning McQueen?"

The racecar dipped slightly to his right; light glinted off the smooth curve of his wheelarch. It was his signature move; but he wasn't plastered in stickers, and he didn't bother to say "Ka-chow!"

"That's me. You're the Mustang Mater brought in a few days back. What's your name?"

Huh, Henry thought. He was in the presence of one of the greatest living legends of racing and all he could damn well think about was getting filled up and getting on the road to Flagstaff….he must still be sick. "I'm Henry. Thank you for, um, all you've done for me. This whole town."

…I feel like such an idiot.

"Hey," said McQueen easily, "no problem. You feeling better now?"

"Yes, thank you. But Doc asked me to run to Flagstaff for him. Well, for a patient."

McQueen's blue eyes narrowed. "Yeah?"

"For the Plymouth. The orange one. He's pretty sick." Henry met his gaze.

"…aren't you still recovering, though? I could do it. Hey, Flo, gimme a blue-can special, I got to get to Flagstaff in a hurry."

Henry continued to eye him. "Mr. McQueen—I really don't mean to be disrespectful, but you're a racecar and I'm street-legal, plus I just came that way, the road's familiar."

There was a moment that should not have been as taut as it was, before McQueen abruptly shrugged. "Okay. If Doc wanted you to go, I guess you should go. Be careful, though?"

"Oh, I will." Henry felt the fuel pump's nozzle nudge at his filler cap, and flipped it aside. "Thank you."

He still felt strange, even as he filled up and rolled over to Luigi's Casa della Tires to get some new rubber. Strange, as if he were following a script he had never read and never heard of but following it nonetheless. Why the hell was he doing this, anyway?

But he couldn't not. Once he was out on old 66, he let himself wind—and damned if he didn't feel better than he had in years. Strong, and powerful, and fast, and absolutely steady. Rock-steady, as he had been back when Dayne had been there. He had a purpose, and he would fulfill it.

* * *

After the Mustang's exit from Radiator Springs, riding on four of Luigi's best blackwalls (bought not without some protest from the Fiat, who still maintained that whitewalls were the only tires ever to wear) there had been some little commotion in the town. McQueen, after that one odd moment where he and the dark-red Mach 1 had stared at one another, seemed to have the Mustang's back. "Hey," he was saying, as Sheriff and Sarge and Ramone argued, "Doc told him to go. He must have a reason."

The fact that most of the town's residents were gathered at Flo's was not lost on Wingo, Boost and DJ as Mater shooed them down the road from the impound on their way to their various community service jobs. Boost slowed down—they were all limping with their boots on, but this didn't stop Wingo from plowing into him, nor DJ from plowing into Wingo. All three immediately began yelling imprecations at one another.

"Hey, hey, hey!" yelled the Sheriff. "Enough of that! You boys settle down!"

"They done did it to theyselves," Mater pointed out. "Wa'nt me."

"I can see that!" Sheriff pulled around and eyed the three. Boost eyed him right back, trying to look superior. It didn't work very well.

"Yo, what's goin' on?" he demanded. "How come y'all out here instead of sellin' tourist crap?"

Lizzie was luckily asleep, but the rest of the town's residents bridled. "Listen, youngster, what you call 'tourist crap' is a vital part of this town's economy!" Sarge snapped.

"That, and popping dumbass speeders," Ramone put in, "specially ones with paintjobs so ugly you could see 'em from Venus, man."

"Hey, man, harsh." Fillmore was vaguely following the conversation. McQueen had to suppress a chuckle at that as he turned to look at the three tuners, all now slightly dented.

"How's Snot Rod?" Wingo asked, without meaning to. Both the other tuners looked at him.

"He'll be fine," said the Sheriff, but almost immediately Fillmore cut in. "That Mustang dude went drivin' off to Flagstaff to get stuff for him. Some kind of medicine or somethin'."

Boost narrowed his eyes. "What? What Mustang?"

"That red one. He was all sick and stuff. I guess he got better now." Fillmore nodded, complacently.

"Dude, that guy outside of Flagstaff was a red Must—" DJ began. Boost cut him off.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. You just better fix Snot Rod up right so we can get outta here." He glowered at the Radiator Springs townspeople until they shrugged and went back to their various breakfasts.

* * *

Sally rolled into the clinic as noon struck. "How is he?"

"Not great." Doc had an oxygen hose hooked up to the Barracuda's intakes, and it seemed to be helping a little. "His entire air system is inflamed, and it's gone down into his carbs, past the float bowls into the jets themselves; he's running a temperature. It's these goddamn aftermarket kits, Sally, if he hadn't had this stupid blower put in he'd never have had these problems. I've tested him for allergies, and he's positive on a couple of pollens, but—" The Hornet shrugged. "Systems like this shove more air in than the engine can handle, and yeah, you'll get power, but you'll also get a hell of a lot of road-crud in there that is going to set up this kind of thing."

Snot Rod was sleeping—or unconscious, Sally couldn't tell—hanging on his lift, wheels dangling. She rolled up to him and gently touched her bumper to his side—and pulled away. "Chrysler, Doc, he's burning up!"

"I know. It gets any worse, I'm throwing a tarp over him and having Red cover it with cold water. But if that East Coast hotshot can do what I think he can, I'll have something by tonight that can knock out his infection."

On the lift, Snot Rod began to cough again, a heavy choking cough that made Sally wince and Doc roll up quickly to turn the oxy flow to high. He opened his eyes a little, and she was struck by the fact that they were a rather pretty light green. Without the vast blower in the way, she could see his face.

"Hey," she said, softly. "It's going to be okay. Henry's going out to get your medicine, and he'll be back tonight."

The pale-green eyes widened slightly. "H-Henry's doing that? For me?"

"That's right, kid," said Doc, wiping down the manifold with a cold cloth. "You're going to be just fine."

"…where is everybody?" the Barracuda asked, sniffling. "Wingo and, and Boost and DJ?"

"They're working." Doc put down the cloth. "Do you want to have them come and visit?"

Snot Rod nodded, and coughed a little more. "Can I?"

"I expect something can be worked out," Sally said. "Let me go talk to them. Feel better, okay?"

The fact that the car now lying on Doc's lift was one of the Delinquent Road Hazards—and that the 'friends' he wanted to see were the other three DRH—didn't seem to signify. Sally looked at Doc for his okay, and the Hudson nodded. "Not for long, okay? Ten minutes, max. He needs his rest."

Sally smiled. "All right, Doc. Thanks."

* * *

Driving for a purpose felt a hell of a lot different. Henry had slid back onto the interstate and found himself in the far-left lane, easily flickering in and out of traffic. Sure, he had the time to get to Flag and back before nightfall, but he wanted—since it was for that kid, that poor dumb kid with the cheater slicks and the stupid blower—he wanted to get back as soon as he could.

Driving on his own for so long, Henry had learned how not to get caught. He walked his V-8 up to a cop-safe seventy-three, and didn't swerve more than he absolutely had to. Time after time he found himself behind tractor-trailers, and time after time he had to stop himself from roaring past them on the shoulder in his hurry to get to Flagstaff. He let himself shoot the corridor a few times, roaring between two cruising trailers and neatly slotting back into the left-lane traffic.

Several times tuners passed him; a couple of Civics, none quite as tricked-out as Wingo, and a Supra with NOS tanks and a glowing violet paintjob. Henry watched as the Supra dicked in and out of moving traffic, rolling at least two minivans off onto the shoulder, and smirked to himself as a police cruiser roared past just a little later. Go, cops, he thought. Bag them road hazards.

What was he, though, he wondered. And definitely what was little Colin back there?

He pushed aside the thought. The sun rolled over the sky as he drove, and when he got to Flagstaff in the early afternoon they were waiting for him at the hospital.

"You Henry?" asked one ambulance.

"That's me. Doc Hudson sent me from Radiator Springs."

"You got a helluva ride ahead of you, kid, but you're doin' the right thing," said the other ambulance, nudging a cooler into Henry's trunk. He reached up with a tire and slapped a red flasher-bubble on Henry's roof, as well: as he pulled back, the light started to revolve. "Okay, that's what the Doc asked for. Good luck, and go go GO!"

Henry went.

Snot Rod—Colin, actually, Colin Hemiway—shifted uncomfortably on his lift. It felt strange not to have his tires on the ground; not that it wasn't nice to have his weight taken for him, to let his shocks and springs hang easy, but it was…odd. He'd only been up on a lift once before, and that was when the blower and pipes were put in.

It hurt so badly to breathe—and it was difficult. With the blower it had been okay; even when he'd had trouble breathing before, and he had, many a time, he'd just push the valves wide open and gasp in air through his tunnel-ram, and that had helped; but even before they'd rolled that old 'Stang outside Flagstaff he'd felt a nasty itching in his carbs that hadn't gone away. His sneezes, normally not so bad, had really started to hurt; and as they blew through Radiator Springs he'd tried to ignore his temp gauge flicking past Hi Normal into Red.

When he'd told Boost he didn't feel good it had been true, but by the time they got back off the interstate and halfway to the little town he'd felt miserable. Breathing was difficult—his carbs felt huge, choked, swollen—and he couldn't stop coughing, or sneezing.

The doctor had taken one look at him and nudged him up onto the lift, and pulled his blower cowling and made some angry noises at what he'd seen. Snot Rod had been barely conscious, hardly feeling the doctor's tools as the old Hudson had examined him. There had been a bit of blackness, and then his friends had been there, and he'd, he'd said something.

Then nothing, for a while: just the doctor doing painful things, and the struggle to breathe. And then, in the night, when he'd woken, choking, desperately trying to breathe through the coughing fit, someone else had been there. Someone with a quiet, kind, tired voice, who had nudged up against him and reassured him, and told him to take deep breaths, and to wiggle his tires—and the horrible cough had let go.

He remembered rolling the old 'Stang—a year older than his own model—outside Flagstaff. Boost had been in A Mood, and DJ was playing his fave tunes on repeat, Wingo and he had been following—and they'd come on the Stang in the middle lane, clearly running hot and loose, and Boost and Wingo had dropped back. "Hey," Boost had said. "Let's roll this dinosaur. He ain't payin' attention anyhow."

Snot Rod had been feeling too ill to say anything at all, and just dropped back, swerving, into position: and Boost and Wingo had flanked the Mustang, Boost easing him over and over and over and Wingo dropping back just long enough for DJ to nip in and nudge his rear quarter panel—and the rest had been watching. The Mustang's offside wheels hit the rumble strip, and then the soft shoulder, and he had spun out and flipped twice, and come to rest on his tires again in a huge cloud of dust.

"Awesome," Boost had said. "Totally Chryslerin' awesome. Let's burn."

Snot Rod had sneezed, and almost burned ahead of them, but managed to keep it back, and slipped into his usual position at the end of the line. He hurt all over, and oh, but the sneezes hurt, hurt, deep in his manifold. His whole blower felt thick and clogged with congestion, and every breath he took felt like he was drawing it through knives.

Then they'd come to Radiator Springs, and he and Boost had burned the hell on through, leaving Wingo and DJ behind when the Sheriff had peeled out behind them.

He rocked on his lift, miserable, coughing thickly. It hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted to have that kind voice back again, telling him it didn't matter what his name was. That it was okay. That he'd be all right. That….that he could be something other than Snot Rod.

They had said that Henry had gone to Flagstaff to bring him medicine. That he had the, the biggest tank or something. Snot Rod thought it might be something a little different, but didn't say anything. A little later a herd of translucent tractors had come roaring through the clinic, overturning equipment and hooting witlessly, and he'd tried to get them to go away but it hadn't worked and he'd coughed and coughed and then someone had pulled a tarp over him and it had gone dark and a coldness had flooded all over him, like a beautiful spring rain, and he'd been able to catch his breath, almost; and the coldness had kept raining, and he'd drifted off in the middle of it.

* * *

Henry pulled back into Radiator Springs as the moon rose. Exhausted, and almost empty, he rolled up to Doc's clinic, and blew his horn.

Below the garage doors of the clinic water was seeping into the gutters, and he ached, shuddering on his wheels, knowing that the kid inside was sick enough to need a dousing-as he had. Even as he watched, the door wheeled up and the fire engine backed out, gave him one distrustful glance, and scooted up the street.

Doc came out. "Good timing, son. You got what I need?"

"I hope so. In the trunk, they, they just shoved it in there and told me to run. I ran." He popped the trunk for Doc, and watched as the Hornet lifted out a styrofoam cooler.

"……..Can…can I stay with him?" He didn't even know why he was asking.

Doc eyed him. "Yeah, I guess you can. Come on, son. I may need you before morning."

He followed the Hudson inside, shaking with exhaustion, but wanting to see what he'd brought from Flagstaff, and what it would do for the Barracuda.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer, as before: Cars, its characters, and all related indicia belong to Disney and Pixar. Henry is mine.

* * *

Another dawn, and another predictable argument about the cultural merits of _The Star-Spangled Banner_ as interpreted by Jimi Hendrix. There had been no news that night from Doc's clinic, although the gathered townsfolk had watched as the lights in the clinic stayed on well past midnight and into the wee hours. Red had not been called back for another dousing, though, which they took as a positive sign.

Everyone was sleepy this morning. Even the Sarge's relentless hut-two-three-four pace seemed to be lagging: Fillmore's eyes were barely open at all.

Flo yawned enormously, coming out with a tray of oil-cans for the breakfast crowd. "Hoo-ee, 'scuse me, fellas. I swear, I am too old to be stayin' up all night."

"You're not old, baby," Ramone explained, "you _classic_. Hey, here come the lovebirds."

Sally and Lightning appeared from the Cozy Cone's office. She didn't bother to serve the Lincoln Continental breakfast unless she had guests, and Lightning no longer really counted as a _guest_ per se. Slowly they rolled up to Flo's, and greeted the others.

"Any word from Doc?" Sally asked, accepting a quart of oil. "Thanks, Flo. –I stayed up as long as I could, but…"

"Not a one, honey. We're all in suspense here."

Lightning yawned too—it was contagious. "…What about the Mustang? Anybody seen bumper or light of him since yesterday night?"

Nobody had. Not even the Sheriff, who rolled in from his speedtrap looking for breakfast and the morning's gossip. "Doc woulda told us if it was bad news," he said, comfortably rocking on his springs. "He always lets y'know straight out. In fact, I remember this one time…"

Whatever Doc had done that one time was not to be told; for, out of the distance on the way to the fields, a very familiar witless mooing and a ground-shaking rumble approached. The Sheriff's eyes went wide. "Oh, no," he said, "not _again_—" and then the tractors were upon them.

Lightning had still not quite got used to tractors, and couldn't help laughing as the idiot things careened here and there, bonking into things and occasionally tipping over, all the time going "moo" as if it were something of vital importance for all Radiator Springs to hear. One of them wandered into Ramone's place and was very quickly escorted out again by the Impala, waving a can of pink spray paint and yelling curses: another one had a go at eating the Leaning Tower of Tires, but Guido and Luigi managed to dissuade it with gestures and shouting.

"Oh no, Lightning, they're going for the motel!" Sally reversed in a spray of road-dust and headed back to her livelihood, just in time to see a tractor attempt to climb one of the cones and tip onto its enormous back wheels, hooting. Lightning couldn't stop laughing even as he hurried to help Sally corral the others; down Main Street he could hear Mater whooping and swinging his tow cable in a makeshift lasso.

_Well_, thought Flo, as chaos reigned, _that sure is a helluva way to wake up._

* * *

"Hey, man," DJ hissed to Boost. "Wake up, yo."

The Eclipse wasn't really sleeping. "Wsfgl," he said, authoritatively. Beside him, Wingo stirred. "What up, DJ?"

"The door, man! That rusty-bumper ol' tow truck left it open when them things went by! C'mon!"

"What about these boots, dude? We ain't goin' far with this shit on."

"We can, I dunno, scrape 'em open with somethin'! C'mon, dude, I ain't stayin' around to run no more obstacle courses in the desert!"

Boost blinked and looked around. "Damn, yo, DJ's right. Let's book."

One by one the tuners limped out of the impound, ignoring the commotion of the tractor rampage, and stared at one another. "Uh…"

"Going somewhere?"

They lurched around in clumsy circles. There was that beat-up old Mustang, sitting there bold as brass in the middle of the road, watching them.

Boost sneered. "What's it to you, oldtimer?"

"Watch your mouth," said Henry, mildly, "it might grow on you. What are you, anyway?"

DJ and Wingo shared a glance. Boost sneered further: he was limited by his carbon-fiber hood, but he was trying. "I'm an _Eclipse_, ya dweeb. What are you, blind?"

"Ah. It's hard to tell under all that junk." Henry circled him, inspecting the custom lights, the violet-silver paintjob, the NOS cylinders. "Do you even _know_ what this crap does to your engine? And you, with the ladder on your butt. I _think_ you're a Civic under there, but it's hard to tell…and you, friend, will not be going fast enough to need even one wing, let alone a whole stack of 'em."

Wingo stared at him. Who did this idiot think he was? He didn't even have chrome rims!

"…ah, yes, and you would be the rolling jukebox." Henry paused beside DJ. "Cute. D'you know, if you hadn't paid for all this to be installed, you might actually be able to run efficiently? Not, of course, that the Scion was ever meant to be a…what is it? Tricked-out hoopty? Or are you lot whips? I can never remember."

All three Road Hazards stared at him with their mouths open.

"Let me guess," Henry said. "You're street-racers."

"We're the Delinquent Road Hazards, man!" Wingo snapped. "We _dangerous_."

"If you drive like you look, I'd say that's a certainty. Let me explain something to you, kids. It isn't—and it never has been—what's on the outside that makes you fast. You can bore it and stroke it and bolt on hemi heads—oh, sorry, no room for that—and blow nitrous till you're laughing like a demolition truck, but none of that is going to make you a good racer. Those tires, for example."

Boost had got over the worst of his astonishment. "Listen, man, who the hell you think you are? You _ancient history_. You ain't even got _LEDs_."

"Those tires," Henry continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "not only look like the things on Model Ts, but they're useless. You hit one chunk of gravel at speed and you're looking for a tire shop."

DJ already knew this to be true, but kept his mouth shut. There was something disconcerting about the way the dark-red car kept prowling around them, as if they were prey and he was hungry.

"Spoilers and ground-effects," went on Henry, "are all very well if you're producing enough lift to actually need the downward push. You won't be. Even on a highway you can't go that fast for more than a few miles before you have to get through traffic. That stuff's for serious racers, not for street wear."

"So what's your point?" Wingo demanded. "You tryna bore us to death or somethin'?"

"Is it working?" Henry looked brightly curious. "Actually, no. I'm just trying to work out what it is about you three that has your friend so very attached to you."

Boost cut his gaze sideways to the others, and then looked back at him. "Whatchoo talkin' about, oldtimer?"

"Your friend. 'Snot Rod.'" They could all hear the inverted commas clang into place around the name. "You'll be happy to know that he's out of danger."

They all spoke up at once. "The hell you know about Snot Rod, man?" "What danger?" "Who are you anyway?"

Henry laughed. "I'm the guy he told his real name to. Go on. If you limp fast you might make it to the clinic before they finish rounding up the tractors."

The Road Hazards shared another _huh?_ glance, before turning almost in synch and heading up the street at a fast limp, boots clonking against the asphalt.

* * *

He watched them go. That had felt good. In fact, he'd been feeling good—if exhausted—ever since Doc had sent him on his errand. When he'd returned with the cooler, he'd followed the Hudson into the clinic, and helped him clear away the tarp and wipe the Barracuda down; then he'd watched as Doc set up a complicated drip-feed of the clear liquid he'd brought in vials from Flagstaff. Drop by drop, the stuff fed into the Barracuda's fuel lines.

"That'll do the trick," Doc had said, sitting back and watching. "Now it's up to him."

Henry, too, had watched. Through the night, they'd both watched: and around three in the morning Doc had taken Snot Rod's temperature and nodded, slightly, and he'd known the Cuda would be all right. The drug was completely gone by four-thirty, and Snot Rod had started shivering a little in the cool air of the clinic: Doc had sent him for blankets, and when they'd pulled one over his roof and another over his hood, he'd opened his eyes a little and tried to smile.

The doctor had drifted off a little while later, and Henry had followed, still tired from the breakneck trip to Flagstaff. When they woke it was to the strains of the dual reveille.

"Thanks for your help, son," Doc had said. Henry had been almost surprised.

"…you're welcome." He had scuffed at the asphalt with a tire. "Thank you, too."

Doc hadn't asked "for what." He knew, well enough.

Now, having heard the tractors on their way, he had nipped out of the clinic and gone to have a look at the other tuners—and found them still asleep with the impound door wide open. This, he'd thought, could be worth the watch. They hadn't disappointed him.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer, as before: _Cars_ and all related characters and indicia are the property of Disney and Pixar. Henry is mine.

* * *

Days had passed.

The DRH had been working as diligently as they ever worked at anything other than pissing off fellow motorists, and even Doc had to admit that the roads looked beautiful, Lizzie's store sparkled, and the tracks of Sarge's boot camp were raked smooth every morning. He'd not bothered to ask the three why they'd changed their tune. He could tell.

They wanted to get the hell out of here.

Snot Rod, otherwise known as Colin, pending further nickname genesis, was recovering nicely. Doc let him out of the clinic for a short afternoon drive three days after his fever had broken, and was pleased to see that he came back on time and only wheezing slightly. While Colin had been out of it Doc had taken the time to adjust his ridiculous blower intake, so that it still looked about as terrifying as it had before, but the tunnel ram intake forced about two-thirds as much air into his carbs, and did it through three new sets of hypoallergenic filters. He'd probably always have a weak air system, but with the modifications he shouldn't be quite so vulnerable to dangerous infections.

Doc shook himself out of a brown study, aware that the Mustang had said something. Despite his full recovery, Henry had elected to hang around a little longer, and Doc was happy to put him up at the clinic, aware that Henry wasn't exactly the social butterfly sort to enjoy much questioning by townsfolk.

"…what'd you say, son?"

"Nothing important." Henry stretched lazily and settled himself. "Just that I wonder what those kids are going to do next, really. They're trying so hard to prove something to someone, and I'm not sure any of them know what and to whom."

"That's some deep college-boy talk," Doc said, smiling. "You're right. Adolescent rebellion at its most pure and distilled. If we asked them what exactly it is they're rebelling against, at least one of 'em would say—"

"—'whaddaya got,'" Henry finished. "Yeah, I know. I feel ancient. But they have one redeeming quality, anyway, they stuck around for their friend. How's he doing, anyhow?"

Over in the far bay of the clinic Colin sat sleeping, his breath no longer coming in those snory gasps. "He'll do. He's not ever going to be terribly well, but he'll do nicely if he learns to take some care. He looks up to you, y'know."

"Heh," Henry said. "I never expected to have any of that sort of responsibility. I dunno if I can live up to it."

"Anyone who could do that breakneck run to Flagstaff should have no trouble handling a little hero-worship, kid." Doc smiled at him. "I saw you out on the dirt track today. Pretty hot stuff."

Henry went a slightly deeper shade of red. "It's nothing, I'm out of practice. Haven't done dirt racing in, oh, damn, must be a year. Over a year."

"You still slammed it," Doc told him. "You got the instinct for the powerslide in the corners. A lot of racers never get that, their whole lives. Maybe you want to take Colin there out with you one of these days. Might do him some good."

Henry blinked, and stared at the old Hudson. "You think?" The same thought had occurred to him, been dismissed, and kept coming back like an ice cube pushed under the surface of a lake. "I don't know if it would be good for him, you know, with his breathing and all."

"Eh, he has to get back into it somehow. And really, if he had different tires—" both of them smiled to think of the gigantic cheater slicks on the Barracuda's rear axle—"he could probably give you a run for your money, at least in the sprints. Give him some confidence, you know. Let him be good at something other than following that tiresome Eclipse."

The thought of the other three Delinquent Road Hazards on a dirt track made Henry laugh, a deep warm mellow sound. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Doc."

It rained that afternoon, massive heavy thunderheads building up atop the bluff and throwing down enough water to make the whole desert go green for a week or so. Henry stayed out in it, revelling in the wonderfully odd sensation of icy cold raindrops combined with a warm road, and in the indescribable scent of hot asphalt in a downpour. He was feeling something close to young again, and didn't mind how silly he must look doing donuts down the main drag of Radiator Springs in the pouring rain.

More and more these days he was thinking of Dayne—but it wasn't the bitter miserable sort of thought he was used to. He could remember now how she'd laughed at him when he complained about potholes or take-away fuel from roadside stands, how she'd snuggled up next to him in the darkness just before dawn, condensation beading her beautiful lines in a thousand tiny little jewels. Remembering how beautiful she had been was no longer actively painful, perhaps in some part because he felt that she was somehow _still with him_, as if she had never really gone away.

* * *

It took two days for the dirt track outside of town to dry out to the point where Henry felt comfortable running it, and by the time it did Colin was making his first exploratory longer drives out of the clinic and around the town. Most of the time Wingo and Boost were with him, when he was out; DJ was still busily helping re-grade the road surfaces for Sarge's boot camp. This morning, however, all three of the other tuners were sleeping in, and Henry was the only one to see the Barracuda creep out of the clinic, tentatively, and look around.

"Hey, kid," he said mildly. He was parked off the road watching the colours change as the early sun moved across the sky. "How you feeling?"

"Pretty good, I guess." Colin rolled over to him, looking more than a little uncertain. "I can breathe better. Um. Henry. Thanks."

"Hmm?"

"For, y'know. Everything. You've been really cool." He wiggled his right front tire, digging a little hole in the reddish dirt. "Even after we rolled you."

Henry chuckled. "Forget the roll, kid. Seriously forget it. Am I even dented?" He leaned over, displaying his roof, which had in fact been banged out to its original contours whilst he was unconscious and raving about eyes like the bluest sky, and shimmied a little to let the early sun glint on the metal-flake paint. "Anyhow, you're very welcome and I'm glad you're back on your wheels, and what would you say to trying out the old dirt track outside of town today? If you feel up to it, I mean."

Colin's vivid orange paint didn't go very well with his astonished expression. "You mean it?"

"Nah, I'm yanking your CV boot. Course I mean it, kid. But as it's a dirt track you'll need some different tires. I bet you Luigi has something that'd fit."

"Oh." The Barracuda looked intensely self-conscious, and Henry couldn't stop himself from leaning over and nudging him with his bumper.

"Nothing wrong with those you've got, but they're asphalt-specific. Hell, I'll need another set myself, these are highway tires. You ever raced dirt-track before?"

"Um. When I was a kid, but not really since…"

Since he got his mods. Henry nodded. "Fair enough. We'll take it easy, but I think it'd be good for you to get back into action. Fresh air, all that good stuff, right?"

It was difficult not to be aware of the slightly awed look in those pale-green eyes, but Henry was trying. He had a lot of experience in not paying attention to things.

Luigi did, in fact, have other tires. Luigi was even convinced to lend Colin a whole set of mounted dirt-track racers; Henry had a quiet word with the Fiat while Colin was trying them on, and there wasn't any question raised of payment when the Barracuda asked if he could give them a trial run up and down the street. Henry's credit was still good.

Colin looked very different without the massive dragster tires. Sleeker, sharper, something close to classic. Henry considered, and thought that on the whole he rather liked the original version; there was something inexplicably charming about the slicks and the way they jacked up his chassis until his nose was almost pointed at the ground. He was wriggling the new tires as if he wasn't sure they fit right, and Henry realized it would be the first time in years he had design-basis equipment on. Must feel strange.

"You look like a million bucks, kid. Still feeling okay?"

"Um, yeah. I'm just used to….looking down at the road a lot more." Colin gave him a shy smile. "Guess this is how normal cars feel. –I mean that's a good thing."

"Yeah, we normal cars are pretty awesome, all right." Henry grinned at him. "Come on, I want to see how you handle the track."

One good thing about the rain was the fact that it would've laid some of the dust, at least initially, and therefore this wouldn't be _too_ miserably uncomfortable for the Barracuda. He hoped. Doc's new filters should really help him breathe better, but he was still hoping the dust didn't hurt his intakes. He took it slow on the way out of town—most of the residents were still sleepily trundling about their morning routine, and didn't pay them much attention.

Henry had run this track a couple of times on his own, and once or twice with people watching; he had a pretty good understanding of where the difficult bits were and where one needed to start paying really close attention to one's drift. It was possible to get up over a hundred thirty on the near-vertical curved bluff wall—the problem was then maintaining control when coming back to earth, and judging the timing right in order to start the turn into the third corner early enough. He pulled off by the track and looked over at the Barracuda.

"Okay, Colin. You've played with a dirt track before. You want the first round or should I go first?"

"I'll go." His pale-green eyes were determined, if rather large and worried, and he wriggled his tires again. "Just….if I do something dumb…..don't tell the guys?"

"Scout four-by-four's honor." Henry saluted him. "Show me what you got."

Colin lit his engine, the eight pipes roaring, and settled closer to the ground, looking determined. Henry could see him mentally counting down, and when he hit zero, he took off.

It was impressive to watch. He himself was pretty fast, but he was heavier than the 'Cuda and took longer to accelerate; Colin was lower and longer, and stuck to the ground much more easily than he did. Still, it occurred to him as he watched the bright orange speck getting rapidly smaller, Colin wasn't necessarily used to his own ground-effects and aerodynamics without those ridiculous back tires, and this might possibly be a problem.

In point of fact he managed. Henry watched—and listened—as he roared up onto the vertical curved wall and as he came down again, not scraping his chassis too badly on the ground, and hurtled around the second turn. Now they'd get to see whether he really had the makings of a dirt-track star or if Henry was going to be chewed out _royally_ when he went back to town to fetch Mater and his tow cable.

He hadn't been this tense in a long time, staring at the rapidly accelerating cloud of dust following the Barracuda, calculating in the back of his mind whether he'd make the turn in time, and whether he'd react to the skid appropriately, and….

Colin was coming into the turn faster than Henry had, and….hell, he was turning too sharply too late, and he lost traction in all four tires at once—he was close enough now for Henry to register the terror in his eyes—he was skidding toward the precipice—

"Turn right!" Henry yelled. "Hard right! Now!"

He could see the flash of light from the rims as Colin reversed his front tires, and almost immediately lost him in the cloud of dust as he began the drift. Cursing violently, Henry began to roll down to the edge of the track to see if he could make out how far down the ravine the Barracuda had fallen, when the dustcloud shivered and broke in two—with Colin roaring out of it, in control once again, wide-eyed and going quite a lot faster than he himself had managed out of that turn.

He cut the speed, though, and rolled up to Henry, panting and coughing dryly. "Did you…see that?" he demanded. "Did you see me?"

"I saw." Henry leaned over and nudged him gently, and was surprised—and not displeased—when Colin huddled suddenly against him, shutting his eyes. "I saw, kid. That was damn good for your first shot at this track. –I heard Lightning McQueen ran right the hell off the road several times in a row when he tried it."

"R-really?" Colin sounded shaky, but he also sounded as if he was beginning to be proud of himself.

"Really. And I nearly went over. That's a nasty third turn and you did it very well." He smiled a bit. "How're you feeling? Doc will strip me to the frame if I've set your recovery back."

"'m okay." He coughed. "It's just…dusty. I feel good, Henry, really, I haven't done anything that awesome in a long time. How did you know to do that weird opposite turn thing?"

"Practice and dumb luck. I did it by mistake once and found that it actually worked." He grinned. "Here, now that you've had your turn, let me show off."

_Let's try not to crater, shall we?_ he thought, and shook himself a bit, rolling up to the chain they used as a start and finish line. It had been so long since he'd felt truly well that he was still extremely aware of _not_ hurting all over, of not feeling sick and aching and exhausted, and a little part of him was jumping at the chance to show off properly. He couldn't do this for Doc; it would feel silly, childish. In fact nobody else in the whole town but the Barracuda would feel like a suitable audience.

Henry flicked his throttle wide open, letting his engine roar, heating up the dual carbs, feeling the little pleasant itch as the metal expanded and settled, and dropped into first. His dirt-track tires bit into the ground and catapulted him forward in what would have been a dangerously uncontrolled surge if he hadn't been completely prepared for it: he let his tach creep up sharply before upshifting, and he was in fourth by the time he made it to the bluff wall. Down to third for the transition to semi-vertical, feeling the stresses all through his frame, the drift of centrifugal force working against the pull of gravity, and up to fourth and fifth again for the second turn and the straightaway.

He was going quickly enough now—a hundred and twenty—that he became briefly airborne on some of the larger bumps, and his shocks and struts complained loudly at this ill-treatment, but he was having far too much fun to care, and concentrated on the upcoming turn—and cut his steering rack sharply to the right as he worked off the throttle, again very aware of the conflicting forces in charge of his immediate fate. The spinning front wheels worked to cut his forward momentum even as his back wheels bit into the dirt and thrust him round the curve; he let the front wheels flirt gently from right to left and just as they found purchase again he pulled the throttle open and _roared_ through the last of the turns, coming to rest in a cloud of dust with a bright and idiotic grin.

Colin was staring at him, eyes wide. He beamed at the Barracuda, wiping dust away from his prow with a tire. "Not too bad for an amateur, hey?"

"That was amazing." Colin's voice was soft, honestly impressed.

"Nah, you want to see amazing, you should see Doc Hudson out here. He's the Fabulous Hudson Hornet, after all. Pretty much the best of his time." He noticed that Colin was wheezing a little, and leaned over to nudge him. "C'mon, kid, let's go get something to drink, this dust is killing me. But I think you ought to go on with this. It's something you're good at, and that you could be even better at with more practice."

"You think so?"

"I do." Henry smiled. "And to prove it I'll even buy you a quart of the _expensive_ oil, not that synthetic mess."

Colin smiled a smile nobody familiar with the Delinquent Road Hazards would have associated with him, and followed the Mustang back toward town.


End file.
